Long-term plan: leave here the day I turn sixteen. Three weeks before Christmas. Yes, Floyd, there is a Santa Claus.

I WALK indoors, hang my helmet and hoodie in the mudroom, and go into the kitchen. Cassie’s sitting at the table with her stuffed skunk. She calls him Rover because she wants a puppy, even though I told her we can’t have one. Ever.

She’s scowling at me. “You went to the library without me.”

“You were asleep.”

She shoves a picture book across the table. “We gotta take this back.”

The book is about a pink dragon called Petronella, whose hobby is turning the villagers’ gardens to soot. “It’s not due yet.”

“It gives me nightscares.” That’s her word for bad dreams.

“We’ll take it back in a couple of days.”

“Now!”

“We can’t. I’ve got to do the woodpile. What was the night-scare about?”

“A dragon burned down all our trees. Its eyes were red like its brain was on fire. I hid under my bed and its claws went scritch-scratch on the floor.”

“Gross.”

“You weren’t there to save me.”

I pat her on the sleeve. “Dragons like Petronella live in faraway countries.”

“She lives in our oven. She’s why the tuna melts went black.”

I had my nose stuck in a book and forgot about the tuna melts, that’s why they went black. Try telling that to Cassie, who has enough imagination for six kids. Good thing she watches daytime TV. Tyrone and Pablo from The Backyardigans are sweeter than fudge, and so are the reruns of Blue’s Clues.

“How about I make bacon and eggs for lunch?” I say.

“Then we’ll go to the library.”

“Not today, we won’t. But I’ll hide the book in my room so you’ll be safe from Petronella.”

“Ketchup on the eggs.”

“Okay.”

Floyd’s empty coffee mug is still sitting on the table, the Eric Lindros mug he’s had for years: Philadelphia Flyers, #88, good-looking guy, big, physical. Everything I’m not.

Sure, I’m tall for my age. But the day muscles were parceled out, I must have called in absent.

Using both hands—you dropped it, kiddo?—I place the mug in the dishwasher, back right-hand corner, nothing touching it. Then I fry up some bacon while Cassie watches for the toast to pop up. The bacon turns out crisp but not burnt, perfecto when you add eggs easy-over and toast slathered with strawberry jam. Cassie feeds the crusts to Rover.

Normally, with Floyd at work and Opal out, we could watch TV. I go upstairs, drag on my oldest jeans, and rummage for my work gloves in the bottom drawer. Floyd’s the Hilchey River Road Woodpile Expert, studying the different types of wood and reading articles on the Internet. In the meantime, I supply the boy power because—let’s not kid ourselves—manpower it ain’t.